Highway 41*

(*An obscure poem I wrote in October 2011 and soon forgot.)


         Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues,
          you can tell by the way she smiles.
— Bob Dylan, Visions of Johanna

Ants parade past
pumpkin patches and tourist traps.
A short, fat woman
walks her short, fat dogs.
Lutheran lawn —
last mowing before snowing.
A full sheet of plywood
leaned against a red horse trailer.
Tall white pines open their arms
and conduct a romantic score.
A menagerie of cat tails.
Whim-whammy whirligigs
whiplashing like whirring prayer-wheels
in the wicked west wind.
What does the raven have in his bill?
The driver’s seat hurts my collarbone,
clavicle from the Latin for key,
for opening things.


Published by

Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner

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